


Everyone Knew (before they did)

by Phoenix_Soar



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Friendship/Love, Hate to Love, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Soar/pseuds/Phoenix_Soar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'It's because you do things like this that people think we're gay for each other, you know,' Thomas pointed out dryly.<br/>Minho blinked. 'You mean, we're not?'</p><p>Or how everyone knew what Thomas and Minho were, before they knew it themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rivals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, new fandom, may I present my first contribution to the lovely ship that is ThoMinho. 
> 
> I've seen both movies, but finished only the first book so far, so the characters are based off the impressions I have till now. I'd love to write some fics set in canon after I've read all the books, but till then, I need an outlet for my OTP feels, so here we are. I adore the occasional AU cliches, so this is me, trying to put my own spin on them.

Everyone knew Thomas and Minho were rivals even before they did.   
  
In fact, everyone knew it before Thomas and Minho even knew each other.  
  
It all began the day Thomas tried out for his new school's track team - or, as Chuck was quick to point out over Skype when they were chatting online later that night: the day Thomas finally sold out to his mother's wheedling that he should at least  _try_  to be a bit more social and  _hey, you were the star of your old school's track team, why don't you go for the try-outs?_  
  
(Thomas had rather vehemently insisted that it did not count as "selling out", but Chuck had insisted that since Thomas' abrupt change-of-heart on the whole antisocial thing came in the wake of his mother offering to buy him that latest iPhone - what number was it again? Thomas had lost count - it certainly  _did_  count as more or less of a sell-out.   
  
Damn Chuck. Why did he love that kid again?)  
  
In any case, with a shiny new iPhone - who cares what number it was - in his bag, gone for the try-outs Thomas had. He was a damn good runner and if he had to choose an extracurricular, then track and field it was.  
  
The school's track team "Gladers" was widely renowned for producing tough and competitive athletes, which Thomas learned to respect as he watched the try-outs. The track members themselves looked highly athletic and strong, to the point of seeming intimidating, and they only picked the best from the rookies - or "Greenies", as they called them - trying out.   
  
He was not that worried, though. He had enough confidence in his skills to know he would make good time, and even if he did not make the cut ... well, the only regretful thing he would have to put up with would be his mother's disappointment at her son's failure at a chance to "mingle".  
  
'Alright, Murphy, you're up.'  
  
Thomas felt the first fluttering of nervousness in his gut as he stepped forward for his turn at the 100-metre sprint. He had done this a thousand times before back in his old school, but nothing ever drowned out that quivering feeling of anticipation right before the run.   
  
The whistle blew and he took off, his feet light on the ground and his nervousness whipped away in the wind blowing past him as he pushed himself to the limit. The adrenaline and excitement of running overpowered everything else as they always did, and he felt nothing but the blood rush and strain in his muscles, all other sights and sounds blurring to insignificance, until he crossed the finish line.  
  
Flushed with success, he turned back with a wide grin that froze on his face when he saw the entire team gaping at him. The stare that the one lanky guy with long blond hair, who had been holding the stopwatch, was giving him was particularly unnerving.   
  
Perhaps because it looked like he was suppressing a smile.  
  
When Thomas finally walked back to the gaggle of teenagers, the blond boy loudly announced, 'Eleven point five-seven seconds.'  
  
To Thomas' surprise, a few of the track members actually gasped out loud. They began to mutter to each other, low and quick, still stealing looks at him. Thomas could not tell whether it was excited muttering or angry muttering, but it did nothing to lessen the awkwardness he felt as he stood there, at a complete loss.  
  
'Congratulations, Greenie,' drawled the blond guy in a British accent, openly smirking now. 'You just broke our top jock's record. My name’s Newt and, on behalf of the team, welcome to the Gladers.'  
  
Still struggling to compute what just happened and everyone's reaction, Thomas dazedly accepted Newt's brief handshake. He added rather unnecessarily, 'Hi, yeah, I'm Thomas,' which made Newt laugh and Thomas' face to heat up with mortification.   
  
There was no time to argue that he was understandably a little out of sorts or to ask the actual questions on his mind, though. Next moment, Newt was barking at everyone to shut up and continue with the try-outs, prompting the other Greenies to step forward.   
  
Thomas trudged back to the bleachers, trying to gather his thoughts as he edged past the other members, avoiding their eyes. And that was when he picked up some of the murmurs,  
  
'- broke effin Minho's record, goddamn -’  
  
'Who woulda thought a Greenie'd be the one to kick Minho's ass, eh?'  
  
'- must be hella freezing in Hell right now, hah!'  
  
'Reckon Minho's gonna challenge the Greenie - ?'  
  
By the time Thomas got away from the whispers, there were only two things on his mind. The first was that he really, really disliked being called a "Greenie". He had a freaking name, thank you very much.   
  
And secondly, who the hell was Minho and what was that strange feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach?  
  


~***~  
  


Thomas found the answer to his question the very next day.  
  
More like, he literally ran into it. Or him.  
  
Six days at W.C.K.D Glade High - which Thomas still found hard to believe was not named as a joke - had not familiarised him with the buildings enough to not get lost. That majorly sucked when, for one thing, you were running late for a class taken by a teacher who seemed out to get everyone and everything, and for another, when you prided yourself on having an eidetic memory (in your opinion). Getting lost was simply humiliating on a very personal level, when it came to that.  
  
So, when Thomas  _finally_  found himself at a familiar location in Block A and realised, with mounting irritation, that he had been going in the opposite direction to his class all along, he made a run for it. Hoping against hope that he still had enough seconds to make it right before the bell rang, he put an extra burst of speed as he rounded a corner.  
  
Thomas' first thought, somewhere between the first wave of shock and pain, was that he had made a wrong turn and ran into a wall or door.   
  
But the door or wall he had run into had grunted with pain as well when Thomas practically bounced off it, and the door/wall apparently had arms because they shot out reflexively and grabbed Thomas by the waist right before he fell backwards onto his butt. Which would have been exponentially more humiliating - on a very public level - than being stupidly lost.  
  
Thomas found himself pulled close against what he realised, as the shock and pain ebbed away, was a human being. As his vision and head cleared, he looked up to see whom he had nearly steamrollered and found himself almost nose-to-nose with an Asian guy with black hair and dark eyes so intense they nearly made Thomas recoil. The only thing that prevented him was the hands still gripping his waist.  
  
Someone laughed loudly. 'When's the bloody wedding?'  
  
Heat rushed to Thomas' face as he looked round to see Newt from the track team leaning against a row of lockers across from them, grinning broadly as if enjoying a show.   
  
'Shut your hole, Newt.'  
  
Thomas looked back as the guy he had nearly run over spoke up. Despite his words, there was no real anger in his voice and he seemed almost amused as he turned back to Thomas, crocking an eyebrow.  
  
'You alright? Nearly killed us both, there.'  
  
'Yeah, sorry about that, I was just -' Thomas trailed off as he belatedly realised that the guy had already let go of him, but Thomas was still holding tightly onto his upper arms. When had he grabbed the guy? He had not even realised doing it.  
  
What he did realise though - and he could have kicked himself for it, what the hell - was that, underneath the long sleeves of the guy's blazer, his arms felt ... nice. Goddamn, what was wrong with him? Thomas quickly snatched his hands back and he could have sworn his would-be bulldozed victim looked even more amused.  
  
He was about to say he was late and hurry on to class when Newt suddenly stepped forward.  
  
'Anyway, it's a good thing you two ran into each other today -' he began, lips quirking.  
  
The Asian rolled his eyes. 'Ah yes, I was wondering why I didn't miss you at all for the past week I was away. I've been back less than a day in your presence and I already feel like hopping a plane back to Korea.'  
  
Wholly unfazed, Newt continued, 'This is Thomas Murphy, the one I was telling you about.'  
  
Thomas was startled for all of three seconds until the other boy turned back to him, suddenly serious and unsmiling, and said lowly, 'Right. The Greenie.'  
  
With a lurch in the pit of his stomach, Thomas suddenly realised exactly who was standing in front of him, right even as Newt said,   
  
'And Thomas, this is our leader and captain of the Gladers, Minho Park.'  
  


~***~  
  


"Hostile" was not the word Thomas would use to describe the way Minho was looking at him, but it was not "friendly", either.  
  
There was something aloof and calculating in his dark eyes that set Thomas on edge, bringing back to life that ball of dread he had felt in his stomach when he first heard everyone muttering about this Minho on the day of try-outs.  
  
He was about to choose the path of courtesy and just go with, 'Nice to meet you, Minho,' when Newt lightly commented, 'The bloke's gonna be a great asset to the team, Minho. He took your best record and damn right broke it over his knee.'  
  
From the way Minho's eyes darkened, Thomas could tell that Newt had not phrased that in the best possible way.   
  
But then Minho was looking him square in the eyes as he said, 'Bring your best game to our next practice then, Greenie. Need to see for myself if you got the chops to be a runner, like everyone's been gushing about.'  
  
Whatever intimidation Minho's stare had evoked in Thomas immediately vanished, replaced by defiance and a heightening anger. If the freaking  _captain_  of the track team begrudged him for simply breaking his glorious track record or whatever, then that was about the pettiest thing Thomas had heard of.   
  
'I look forward to showing you my  _chops_ , then,' he almost snapped, narrowing his eyes. Immediately afterwards, Thomas realised that maybe he had crossed a line, considering he was a newbie and this was his team leader he was addressing.  
  
Minho, however, did not show anger on his face. Instead, he took a step forward so that he was invading Thomas' space and said evenly in tones that raised the hairs on the latter's arms,   
  
'You damn better, Greenie, or your butt will be out faster than you can cross a finish line.'  
  
Thomas stared at him, his dislike for the guy cementing. 'Stop calling me a Greenie. I have a name.'  
  
'And both of you stop being colossal idiots, we're all on the same team,' Newt interjected before Minho could reply, looking annoyed. 'This ain't a bloody contest amongst us.'  
  
Without another word, Minho turned away from Thomas and walked off. Thomas glowered at his back.  
  
'The hell's his problem?'  
  
'Don't worry, Tommy,' said Newt airily, nudging him with his elbow. 'Minho's just a little unused to being bested. It'll be good for him to have you on the team.'  
  
Thomas looked disbelievingly at the blond. 'How'd you figure that?'  
  
Newt smiled. 'Everyone needs a little competition to put them on the right track,' he said ambiguously. 'Now, don't you have class, Tommy?'  
  
'It's Thomas,' he replied distractedly, looking at his watch. He blanched. Class had begun minutes ago and he had not even realised that the bell had rung.  
  
With a quick wave to Newt, he quickly ran off to his Advanced Calculus class. Six days at a new school were not enough to get away with bunking class just yet.  
  


~***~  
  


The day Thomas met Minho, he learned a couple of important things:   
  
The line between standing up for yourself and antagonising your senior is extremely thin.   
  
Life or fate or destiny or whatever fabric of the universe it is that guide your lives is a right bitch.  
  
Because when Thomas turned up for that Advanced Calculus class he was embarrassingly late for (according to his standards), not only did he find a furious Mr Janson who prevented his entry inside the classroom, but there was another person joining him in getting yelled at in the hallway for their tardiness.  
  
And Thomas wondered why, from all the life possibilities that could ever exist, the reality was that Advanced Calculus was apparently a class he shared with Minho Park.  
  
If he had hoped that the only interaction they would be forced into was getting told off together by their rat-faced teacher, after which they could hopefully sit far away from each other in class - oh, Thomas had another reality slap awaiting his face.  
  
Mr Janson paused, glaring down at the angry Minho and sullen-faced Thomas before giving an unpleasant smile.  
  
'But, of course, my lecturing you on the importance of punctuality to my classes will only drift in through one ear and out through the other, won't it? Perhaps I can make you learn the lesson another way.'  
  
Thomas and Minho looked at him in unison. Thomas felt an uneasy wrench at his gut.  
  
'Detention. Both of you together. Next week Monday, right after school.'  
  
Thomas almost groaned out loud. Damn it, he should have just bunked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Certain scenes in this fic are based on ThoMinho prompts I see around tumblr, as some of you might have noticed already in this chapter. I've lost track of them so I can't link them, sadly. 
> 
> This will be a short fic and I'm plenty inspired for this, so hopefully, the rest of the chapters will follow really soon. Comments and feedback are always appreciated :)


	2. Friends - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left kudos and commented. The first chapter received more support than I anticipated. Thanks so much, you guys :D  
> This second part of this fic "Friends" ended up much longer than I intended, so this is going to be in two chapters. I present Part I.

Everyone knew Thomas and Minho were friends before they did.  
  
It took both of them a while to figure that out for themselves.   
  
Before Thomas' first official practice with the track team, which would include Minho this time, his mind went into total overdrive, descending into a vortex of chaos as his brain cooked up every imaginable scenario of how Minho would treat him when they actually went up against each other. Most of the little scenes involved Minho being a total prat and belittling him in front of the entire team. That only served to get Thomas' blood boiling and his dislike for the guy strengthened the more he thought about it.  
  
In hindsight, that probably was not entirely fair on his part, considering he was basing all this on the one conversation they had together. If it could even be classified as a conversation.  
  
However, Minho's cool reaction towards him when he found out who Thomas was had made it clear enough that, in his eyes, Thomas was something of a rival - whom Minho looked down on. Thomas still thought it plenty stupid that Minho had chosen to dislike him merely for breaking a track record. Minho had as good as challenged Thomas over it, which only painted him as a vain, superficial jock in Thomas' eyes.   
  
So, yeah, it made sense that Thomas kept imagining Minho trying to keep him downtrodden at track practice.  
  
And for all that Thomas had risen up to Minho's challenge - and later told himself a hundred times that the captain of the Gladers did  _not_  intimidate him the least bit - the thought of your leader possibly trying to humiliate you in front of team members you barely know, on top of you still being the new kid at school, certainly did have a tendency to make you nervous.  
  
That was how Thomas ended up calling Chuck over Skype again the evening before the day of practice and ranting out everything on his mind.  
  
Chuck listened with an expression of deep sympathy at first, before his face eventually morphed into one of cynicism.  
  
'Dude,' he began, cutting Thomas off mid-rant, 'since when have you been intimidated by anyone?'  
  
Thomas stared at the boy's round face filling his laptop screen. 'I'm not  _intimidated_  by Minho Park -' he began, putting as much sarcasm into his voice as possible, but Chuck only laughed.   
  
'Hey, I know I'm just your ex-neighbourhood kid-next-door whom you hung out with 'cause you could never get with the cool kids -'  
  
'Hey!' Thomas protested, but it was only half-hearted. He had never been one to move with the in-crowd, anyway. He would much rather choose Chuck - thirteen year old brat that he was - over them popular kids any day of the week, never mind who called him a loser for it.  
  
' - but I know you enough, man. You're scared of this Minho, aren't you?'  
  
'He wishes,' scoffed Thomas.  
  
'Just a tiny bit?'  
  
'No,' said Thomas, irritated. 'I hate him plenty, though.'  
  
Chuck was still grinning, which only made Thomas more annoyed. Where was the sympathy? Where was cursing Minho out? Chuck was such a useless best friend sometimes.  
  
'You hate him after one meeting?' Chuck snickered. 'Stop whining about what you  _think_  he's gonna do tomorrow, man, and tell me what he was actually like.'  
  
'A sore loser,' said Thomas at once, rolling his eyes in disgust. 'Hates anyone who does better than him. Ugh, who does the guy think he is? Just because he's apparently super-fast and held the school track record and has good looks and nice arms, he thinks he's all that - ?'  
  
'You were checking him out?' Chuck screeched gleefully, so loud that Thomas had to pull off his headphones.   
  
'Are you trying to make me deaf?' he cried, rubbing at his ears before replacing the headphones gingerly. Then what Chuck had screamed actually sunk in and his jaw dropped. 'The hell, of course I didn't check him out!'  
  
'You totally did,' Chuck cackled loudly.   
  
'I was making a detached and entirely objective observation that he is one of those people who thinks the world revolves around him because genetics was good to him,' replied Thomas, completely straight-faced.  
  
His best friend leaned close to his webcam, entirely filling up Thomas' screen with a huge grin.   
  
'I get your  _detached observation_  of good genes. But "nice arms", Thomas?' Chuck made air quotes. 'Really? First meeting and all you could stare at were his arms?' Chuck leaned back, sniggering loudly.  
  
'I didn't stare, he was wearing long sleeves, for the love of - ' Thomas stopped abruptly, realising he had cornered himself.  
  
From the huge shit-eating grin Chuck was wearing, he had realised it, too. 'Long sleeves? Then how'd you know he has _nice arms_ , hmm?'  
  
'I didn't ...' There was nothing he could say about what had actually happened that Chuck would not blow out of proportion.  
  
He was spared the necessity of coming up with a credible excuse when Chuck realised all on his own the only possible way Thomas could have known the aesthetics of Minho Park's arms without actually seeing them.  
  
'Oh my God, you  _touched_  him?!' Chuck's voice had gone supersonic again and Thomas hastily removed the headphones, deciding that unplugging them and relying on his laptop's horrible in-built speakers instead would be the healthiest option for his ears.  
  
'No, I didn't  _touch_  them - I ran into the guy, OK, I was late for class and he was just around the corner, jeez!' Thomas threw up his hands.  
  
'Fell into his nice arms, didja?' Chuck was enjoying himself way too much.  
  
'Dammit, kid, you're  _thirteen_!' exclaimed Thomas, which was admittedly a very poor comeback.  
  
'Yeah, well, you're the dude coming out to this thirteen-year-old right now, you know.'  
  
'I'm not coming ou - oh my God.' Thomas shook his head in disbelief.   
  
Chuck had one final cannonball to hurl at him. In a tone that sounded nothing like Newt's and yet sounding uncannily just like him, he drawled,   
  
'When's the wedding?'  
  
'... I'm not talking to you anymore. Ever again. Good freaking bye, Chuck.' Thomas closed their video chat window before Chuck had stopped giggling.   
  
Useless brat of a best friend.  
  
Thus his conversation with Chuck had ended, not proving either comforting or helpful at all. Thomas went to sleep that night with not only imaginary visions of Minho humiliating him the next day, but Chuck's not-very-subtle implication that Thomas found his track leader ... aesthetically appealing.  
  
 _Ridiculous_ , he huffed to himself as he finally closed his eyes.   
  
The hypocrisy of it was not entirely lost on Thomas when the Gladers gathered for Friday’s practice on the field and Thomas caught his first sight of their captain in his track uniform. The uniform that very prominently lacked sleeves and provided Thomas with an almost sinful view of what those arms actually looked like.  
  
Thomas would have later insisted, even if held at gunpoint, that he had  _not_  been staring as Minho approached them.   
  
But then Newt was at his side, chuckling, 'Stop droolin', love,' in a voice accentuating his British accent so strongly that Thomas was certain Newt had exaggerated it on purpose just to make fun of him.  
  
'I was not droo - ' he began to hiss furiously only to notice Minho frowning at him, and he realised with a sinking feeling that, maybe, Minho might have caught Thomas, er, making a detached observation of how strong his arms looked.   
  
Well, shit.  
  


~***~  
  


To Thomas' great surprise, his first official practice with the team did not start off with Minho burying him six feet under in humiliation. It was actually  _normal_ , with Minho leading the team through all the warm-ups and trainings. He barely spared Thomas a glance, and the latter's nervousness - which had been bubbling up ever since he nearly bulldozed Minho - slowly evaporated away.   
  
In fact, Thomas had almost completely settled into a feeling of security ... until Newt gathered them all up and told the newbies to run the 100-metre sprint again for the benefit of their leader.  
  
‘As you lot must’ve noticed, Minho wasn’t at Wednesday’s try-outs since he was outta the country at the time. So today, you blokes are gonna show our captain what you got, a’right.’  
  
Newt’s eyes flickered towards Thomas, who was experiencing an onslaught of the visions his brain had cooked up the previous day. Was  _this_  the cue for Minho to humiliate him? Would Minho make Thomas race  _him_ , just to win back his pedestal?  
  
Could Thomas even keep up his stint of breaking the captain’s stupid track record?  
  
Slightly overwhelmed by the sudden gush of anxiety, Thomas looked round at Minho and found him looking right back, his dark eyes filled with the same cool calculation they had been the day Newt introduced them.  
  
Stomping down the pulsing ball of apprehension inside him, Thomas gazed back, defiant and absolutely not intimidated. He would show that sore loser.  
  
The sprints began and Thomas thought all the new members seemed a bit more on edge than they had been at try-outs. It seemed silly, considering they were already on the team, but he thought he could understand why – as their leader, Minho cut a formidable character and looked almost judgmental as he observed each of their turns.  
  
Thomas wondered if Minho would actually kick out any of the newbies if they did not match up to his standards. Then, remembering what the captain had said when Thomas talked back to him the other day, he decided that, yes, Minho would.  
  
Contrary to his expectations though, Minho did not put down any of the new members. He did not smile, but actually nodded at each of them when they finished their sprints, acknowledging his acceptance of their membership. The courtesy of it, while not exactly the friendliest gesture, surprised Thomas. Most of the Greenies did not do a very good job of hiding their relief.  
  
Finally, it was Thomas’ turn. Newt had deliberately saved him for last, because he was an asshole like that. Thomas hoped the dirty look he shot Newt conveyed the depth of his unappreciative feelings as he stepped up to the start line.  
  
Newt’s unrepentant grin indicated the feelings had certainly been received. Thomas rolled his eyes – and ended up meeting Minho’s piercing stare.  
  
Right. He had more important things to worry about. Like kicking Minho’s ass and showing he was not afraid to do it.  
  
Haughtily, Thomas turned to face the front again. He was aware of the anticipation hanging over the entire team as they breathlessly waited for the whistle to blow.  
  
He thought he heard someone murmur, ‘Go, Greenbean.’  
  
The sound of the whistle broke through the tense silence and Thomas took off.  
  


~***~  
  


Thomas had not spared much thought to the reaction he could expect for his second run. But the déjà vu of crossing the finish line in a blur and turning to face an entirely silent team staring at him across the field would probably not have made it to his top five expectations.  
  
The only difference this time was the presence of Minho, though Thomas could not for the life of him tell what the leader was thinking as he watched him unblinkingly, posture relaxed and arms folded.  
  
With mixed feelings of uncertainty and hope, Thomas hastily made his way back.  
  
Just like the first time, Newt looked like he was biting back a smile as he raised the stopwatch.  
  
‘Eleven point five nine seconds,’ he announced.  
  
Thomas felt a flicker of disappointment. He had fallen short of his first record by 0.02 seconds. It barely made a difference, but it bothered him.  
  
Then he noticed the team’s reactions. The newbies looked at a loss, but most of the veteran members were chuckling and exchanging grins. In spite of it all, there were a few who looked admiringly at him through their amusement.  
  
Thomas was very, very confused.  
  
The muddled feelings only worsened when he saw Minho’s raised eyebrow, but otherwise, there was nothing in their captain’s expression to clue Thomas in on the joke.  
  
Newt finally spoke up, not even bothering to hide his smirk, ‘Sorry, Tommy. You might’ve beaten Minho’s record on your first try, but you lucked out this time. But now you also hold our  _third_  highest record, if that’s any consolation.’  
  
His words did not compute at first. Thomas had fallen short of his first timing by 0.02 seconds! It had been 11.57 seconds during try-outs, and only 11.59 seconds today … so, how in the world did that make him fall behind Minho’s record? Unless…  
  
Eventually, Thomas’ brain sorted out the mathematics. Several track members were outright giggling by then.  
  
‘You mean you …’ He turned to stare dumbly at Minho, who now looked amused at the expression on Thomas’ face. ‘Your record is -?’  
  
‘Eleven point five eight seconds,’ Newt butted in, grinning so hard it looked like it must hurt.  
  
‘I beat your record that day only by  _point-oh-one_  seconds?’ Thomas exclaimed in disbelief, gaping at Minho.  
  
Minho sniggered, unfolding his arms. ‘That’s right, Greenie. And today you were slower by point-oh-one seconds. Congratulations.’  
  
‘I …’ Thomas shook his head, staring back and forth between Minho and Newt. ‘Why did everyone make such a big deal then? I was barely faster than him.’  
  
‘Because no one had made it even close to Minho’s speed until you came along, mate,’ Newt answered matter-of-factly. ‘That was impressive.’  
  
Filled with mixed feelings, Thomas focussed on Minho. The amused smirk was still firmly on his face.  
  
‘Am I off the team then?’ he blurted without thinking.  
  
Everyone stared at him.  
  
‘What?’ Minho gave him a look that made Thomas wish he could melt into a puddle and just seep away into the ground.  
  
‘You … told me the other day I had to prove I can make the top record, right … I kinda failed … just now …’ Thomas was almost stammering at this point, pretty much hating himself.  
  
Minho’s eyebrow was in danger of flying off his head. ‘You,’ he told Thomas succinctly, ‘are a goddamn idiot.’  
  
Newt – and several others in the background - snorted.  
  
‘I told you,’ Minho spoke over Thomas’ attempt to defend himself, ‘to prove you’re fast enough for the team; otherwise I’d kick you out. Who said anything about making top record?’  
  
Thomas guessed that “You were challenging me with your  _eyes_ ” would not exactly go down as a viable argument.  
  
Minho rolled his eyes when Thomas remained wisely silent. ‘Any more stupid questions about your membership?’ He looked round at the rest of the Gladers, including them in the query.  
  
Many of them were still smirking at Thomas as they quickly shook their heads. Thomas scowled at the ground.  
  
‘Hey, Minho,’ chirped up a boy whose name Thomas did not know. ‘Here’s an idea –’  
  
‘Your ideas perpetually suck, man,’ returned Minho easily and the guy grinned.  
  
‘Why don’t you two have an actual race?’ The boy paused, then added dramatically, ‘Determine who is actually faster, you or the Greenbean.’  
  
Thomas froze and the team went silent for exactly four seconds. And then someone stage-whispered very loudly,  
  
‘Uh oh. Captain America: Civil War.’  
  
The air shattered with the roar of laughter and a few of the Gladers smacked the guy who had whispered.   
  
Thomas remained still, unable to face Minho. In spite of his confidence – and the evidence – that he was perfectly on par with Minho, this right now was the exact scene he had been imagining and dreading since the night before.  
  
Minho racing him, possibly beating him, and then the humiliation in front of the whole team…  
  
‘I have an idea that sucks less than yours, Ben.’  
  
Thomas’ eyes snapped up as Minho’s voice cut through the guffaws easily.   
  
‘How about I race all of you assholes and anyone who cannot beat me gets the boot?’  
  
Ben chuckled, a hint of nervousness lacing his voice. ‘I was joking, Minho!’  
  
‘So was I,’ Minho said sarcastically. ‘If I actually did do that, every last one of you would be kicked out except for Thomas, and I wouldn’t have a team now, would I.’  
  
Thomas was shocked at Minho’s blunt and shameless declaration that Thomas was the only one capable of beating him. He had certainly never … expected that of Minho.   
  
It was also the first time Minho had actually said his name.  
  
‘Just a friendly race, Minho.’ Ben pressed with a shrug. ‘We’re all just curious as to who’s faster. Unless the Greenie is too chicken shit to try.’ Ben looked right at Thomas then, eyes gleaming with amusement.  
  
Thomas knew he was being goaded into challenging Minho. Logically, he knew it was immature and every part of his brain told him to keep his wits and ignore it. But –  
  
‘I’m up for it if Minho is.’ The words escaped before he could stop himself.  
  
Minho levelled a glare at him. ‘No.’ His voice was firm, permitting no arguments.   
  
Thomas should have left it at that. He really should have.  
  
But then again, he had done a lot of things in life he should  _not_  have in hindsight – like that time last year when he had wasted a whole night kicking Chuck’s ass at Starcraft instead of studying for his Biology mid-term the very next day – and, really, today was no different.  
  
‘Are  _you_  too chicken shit to do it, then?’  
  
Thomas knew he had made a mistake even before all the words had left his mouth. A chorus of ‘Ooh’ erupted from the team and every pair of eyes fixated on Minho.  
  
Thomas wondered how long it would take to heal a black eye. Maybe two. He really should have invested in a new pair of shades after his old one broke three months ago.  
  
His breath caught in his throat as Minho approached him slowly, invading his space much like how he had done the first time they met. It took all of his effort not to recoil or flinch as Minho’s eyes bored into him, intense and full of contempt and much too close.  
  
‘You just ran a fucking hundred metres not three minutes ago, you piece of shit. You’re out of breath, you’re exhausted and your energy levels are nowhere near mine right now. You think I’m desperate enough to lord a goddamn track record over your head that I’d race you in that state?’  
  
That was the first moment Thomas felt something change. He could not have said  _what_  the change was or  _where_  it had occurred right then, but he felt it with every fibre of his being. Yet all Thomas could do was stare, rendered speechless, as Minho turned away from him in disgust.  
  
‘Anyone else got more to add?’  
  
The whole team was quiet at last, all of them adopting serious expressions.  
  
‘Fine then. Newt’s in charge of our next practice, but don’t think any of you can slack off just ’cause I won’t be there. We have regionals coming up and I’ll break your damn legs if you fail to win a single event.’  
  
The newbies looked even more alarmed than earlier at Minho’s threat, but then Newt, who had not said a word since Ben spoke up, smoothly stepped in.   
  
‘What our dear captain means is, if you don’t train hard and win, he won’t treat you to dinner.’ Newt grinned affably. ‘Don’t you worry, Greenies, you’ll pick up Minho’s lingo soon enough.’  
  
Minho shot him a depreciating look which only made Newt chuckle harder.  
  
‘Off you go, blokes. Have a good weekend.’  
  


~***~  
  


As the team slowly dispersed, Thomas found himself hanging back and staring at Minho. That guy was … something else. Thomas had arrived at practice with an entire picture painted in his head of how Minho would act around him. So far, Minho had surprised him on every front and Thomas’ entire perception of him was teetering on the edge of a knife.  
  
It took him a moment to realise that the boy he was eyeing was suddenly looking back at him. Thomas’ involuntary start had Minho smirking amusedly at him.  
  
‘Got something to say, Greenie? Or you just like what you see?’  
  
Thomas sputtered ungracefully, trying to refute the implication but seemingly forgetting the entire English language in his discomposure. Minho snickered, shaking his head slightly and Thomas felt even more flustered, because only minutes ago, that same guy had been swearing in his face.  
  
What was with his personality? Did he suffer from mood swings? Was he freaking unstable?  
  
Minho had not looked away and Thomas decided that the least he could do to save face was say something that could pass off as at least remotely intelligent.  
  
‘Will you stop calling me that? Like I said, I have an actual name, you know.’ Thomas was not sure where that registered on the intelligence scale, but at least it was better than gurgling on words.  
  
Minho looked calmly at him. ‘Do you think I’m singling you out with that? Don’t flatter yourself; all you newbies to the team are Greenbeans.’  
  
Thomas paused. Arguing with that would involve admitting that he  _had_  thought Minho was singling him out, because of the whole “rival” thing. But then again … Minho  _hadn’t_  outright humiliated him for that stupid track record, either.   
  
Hell, Minho had point blank refused to race him … and not because he was afraid Thomas would beat him, either …  
  
In that moment, Thomas suddenly realised what the “change” he had felt earlier was and he swallowed uncomfortably.  
  
Minho interrupted his inner monologue, turning away. ‘If you got nothing to say, then beat it. You got the whole weekend and more to get your game together for Wednesday’s practice.’  
  
‘Don’t you mean Monday?’  
  
Minho was giving him that look again; that  _you’re-a-goddamn-idiot_  look.  
  
Thomas stared at him. ‘Track is on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, right?’  
  
The older boy turned to face him fully and said, with a very pointed look, ‘Yes, it is. But you and I won’t be at practice on Monday.’  
  
That matter-of-fact statement rang a whole lot of bells, ranging from alarm to confusion, depending on how Thomas looked at it.  
  
‘Why not? Why only both of us?’ Thomas asked as reasonably as he could.  
  
Minho gazed at him incredulously. ‘Unbelievable,’ he muttered. ‘Do you really ask stupid questions all the time or do you have a memory problem?’  
  
Offended and inexplicably hurt by the insult, Thomas was about to retort defiantly when Minho deadpanned,  
  
‘You and I have a date that day.’  
  
Several seconds passed in silence. Most of Thomas’ brain functions seemed to have come to a rude halt, while his face grew increasingly heated. Meanwhile, Minho remained completely straight-faced.  
  
Finally, ‘What?’ Thomas said in a voice that was absolutely not a squeak. ‘ _What_?’  
  
‘No, wait, it’s not just a date, it’s almost a threesome,’ murmured Minho thoughtfully. ‘Now how could I’ve forgotten about _him_?’  
  
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Thomas said weakly, alarmed at what sounded like an orgy he was being shanghaied into without his knowledge or consent.  
  
‘Our detention after school on Monday with Mr Janson, dumbass.’ Minho dropped his deadpan look and snorted, looking torn between laughing and exasperation.   
  
‘Oh.’ The memory clicked into place and Thomas’ mortification skyrocketed so fast it was halfway to Mars by now.  
  
‘Detention. Monday. After school. You and me –’ Minho began to repeat, voice matter-of-fact again, but his eyes were full of laughter.  
  
‘Yeah, yeah, I got it,’ said Thomas hastily, aware of how red his face must be.  
  
‘Because we turned up late to Janson’s class –’  
  
‘I remember!’ Thomas repressed a groan. ‘Jeez, I forget one little thing …’ He was actually a lot more humiliated personally. So much for that eidetic memory he always prized himself for. He had just been so distracted by –   
  
‘You made it too easy, Greenie,’ Minho said with a laugh, which caught Thomas’ attention. It was the first time Minho had actually sounded completely at ease in Thomas’ company.  
  
‘It’s Thomas,’ he replied automatically.  
  
Minho looked at him, remnants of his grin still on his face. ‘Fine. I’ll see you at detention next week …’ he paused and Thomas anticipated Minho actually being a decent human being and calling him by his given name.   
  
‘…Greenbean.’  
  
‘Ugh.’ Thomas rolled his eyes, not even surprised. ‘Screw you.’ Though his voice did not carry any real heat, he wondered for a split second if he should have held his tongue on that.  
  
Minho, however, only smirked at him. ‘You should be careful, Greenie. I just might take you up on that offer.’  
  
Looking entirely too pleased at Thomas’ jaw drop, Minho sauntered off.  
  
He joined Newt and a couple of other Gladers, whom Thomas had not noticed, lingering in front of the doors to the locker rooms. Nearly all of them glanced at Thomas – were some of them actually leering at him? – before they disappeared through the door.  
  
Thomas, for no discernible reason he could fathom, wanted to scream.  
  


~***~  
  


Chuck laughed for ten minutes straight when Thomas word-vomited everything that happened at track over Skype later that night. He did not care that he was invalidating his own threat to never speak to Chuck again; he needed someone to rant to and his choices were limited to Chuck or his mother.  
  
And hell if he is going to tell his  _mother_  about the stupid track team captain with the dark eyes and strong arms whose mercurial personality was giving Thomas a headache.  
  
‘So, Minho’s not as bad as you thought, huh?’ Chuck commented with a grin when he was finally able to speak.  
  
‘I don’t know  _what_  he is,’ Thomas complained, leaning back against his pillows and adjusting his Mac on his lap. ‘He acts one way one moment, and then another the next! I don’t understand the guy!’  
  
‘Awfully concerned about him, aren’t cha?’  
  
Thomas scowled. ‘For the last time, Chuck, I’m not –’  
  
‘He’s got you all hot and bothered.’  
  
‘I am not feeling  _hot_  –’  
  
‘But he wasn’t mean to you, right? You said he didn’t race you.’  
  
‘Uh … No ....’ Thomas frowned thoughtfully, remembering that moment.   
  
‘Why was it again? Was he afraid you’d beat him?’  
  
No, that wasn’t it, Thomas thought to himself, falling silent. Minho could have easily trumped Thomas if he had wanted to, but he had refused …   
  
He swallowed, remembering the intensity of Minho’s eyes as he had glared at Thomas from inches away. Minho’s words had been harsh, but that had not disguised their true meaning – he had refused the race because Thomas had been at a physical disadvantage at the time.   
  
Because it would have been  _unfair_  … to Thomas.  
  
Thomas bit his lower lip, feeling just as unbalanced now as he had back then when Minho had been right up in his face; when he had realised that Minho was not the track leader just because he was the fastest …   
  
When the first trickles of respect for Minho had blossomed in his chest…  
  
‘Earth to Thomas!’  
  
‘Hmm?’ Thomas snapped out of his stupor to see Chuck peering at him through the camera. ‘What did you say?’  
  
‘…seriously, when’s the wedding?’  
  
Thomas blinked. Then the context sunk in and he groaned. ‘Chuck! I told you, I don’t like him.’  
  
‘You just daydreamed about him! Right in front of me.’ Chuck laughed gleefully.   
  
Thomas wanted to shake him, but decided he loved his Mac too much to use it as a substitute.   
  
‘You were daydreaming about his arms, right? You saw them today, right?’  
  
‘Chuck –’  
  
‘I know what track uniforms look like, you totally saw them!’  
  
‘Just you wait, I’m going to make new best friends at this school and replace you,’ Thomas warned him.  
  
Chuck gave him a grave look. ‘I think you want to be a bit more than friends with Minho, Thomas.’  
  
Thomas ended his video call with Chuck for the second night in a row with the boy’s laughter ringing in his ears.   
  
Gosh, but he really needed a new best friend if this was the direction Chuck was going to go every time they spoke. (Thomas conveniently forgot that it was him who had brought up the topic of Minho each time he called Chuck the past two nights.)  
  
Right before he closed Skype, Chuck sent him a message:  
  
 _When r u gonna see him again?_  
  
Thomas could have ignored it, really, considering he had just video-hung-up on Chuck. Still, he was not that bad, though, and replied before closing the Skype window:  
  
 _Detention. Monday._  
  
At least he had a full weekend before having to deal with Minho Park and his volatile personality again. Thomas decided that he would not spare the older boy a second thought for the duration of those two days.   
  
Or at least he did not (except fleeting thoughts which totally did not count) until he almost ran Minho over outside a convenience store first thing Saturday morning.  
  
Yeah, Thomas running into Minho in every sense of the word was a thing now.  
  
Also, the universe is a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favourite things about The Maze Runner novel is how Thomas couldn't figure Minho out the first time they met. It was such a good scene and kinda inspired my depiction of Minho in this chapter ^^
> 
> I'll try to bring you "Friends - Part II" asap. In the mean time, let me know what you guys thought of this chappie? :D


	3. Friends - Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It came as no real surprise to discover that I still have zero control over my own fics. But who am I to say no when the characters decide to tell the story themselves, right? ^^
> 
> In other words, this is turning out longer than I planned, so "Friends" will actually have three parts instead of just two, like I originally meant. Without further ado, I present "Friends - Part II"

Thomas had something of a morning wake-up call programmed into his brain. His biological clock jolted him awake every morning around seven, give or take a few minutes, without fail.  
  
That was completely fine on a school day. But on a weekend? Nothing sucked more.  
  
Having a freak biological clock that was conditioned into him since childhood did not necessarily make Thomas a morning person – as in, actually bright and happy. _Especially_ on weekends, when he would much rather sleep in like a normal teenager.  
  
This sad lack of teenage normalcy was compensated for by stubbornly staying in bed anyway, sprawling there with a blank mind (on a good day) or contemplating the mysteries and meaning of life (on a not-as-good day) for two or three hours, until his body became literally tired of lying down, at which point he would grumpily rise to greet a Saturday that was still too early.  
  
This particular Saturday’s wake-up was even suckier than normal standards.  
  
Thomas woke up abruptly with an image seared into his mind.  
  
It was normal to wake up some days with random things on his mind, like a Shania Twain song his mother blasted a month ago which his subconscious would decide was a good idea to dig back up for his morning wake-up.  
  
It was _not_ normal to wake up with the image of a boy on his mind. In particular, a boy that was unwelcome and completely unwarranted.  
  
(Chuck would probably argue with that, but whatever, Thomas had already established that Chuck was Wrong.)  
  
If that was not a bad enough precedent to his day, his mother – an early bird herself; maybe it was hereditary – poked her head in and urgently begged him to run down to the store, since they were out of milk and eggs.  
  
‘Why do we run out of eggs and milk every other week?’ Thomas wondered, too comfortable in his burrito of sheets to clamber out.  
  
His mother did not bat an eyelash. ‘Because I’m a single mom working two jobs to raise an antisocial son who could do with a bit less criticising and a lot more getting things done.’  
  
Thomas immediately shot out of bed.  
  
And that was how he ended up outside on a chilly Saturday morning at an hour so ungodly that not even the sun had yet broken free of the clouds bunching above an unseen horizon.  
  
While he paid for the items at the 7/11 that was a two minute walk away from his house round the corner, Thomas was convinced his morning could not hit a new low - right up until he decided to run home on his way out of the store, since it was still too cold outside and he could hear his warm bed calling his name.  
  
As it turned out, there was one more person apart from Thomas (and the sleepy 7/11 cashier) who was out earlier than the sun. Thomas found that out the painful way by charmingly running into said person as he sped round the corner.  
  
The collision was more painful than your average bump into a person, considering _both_ of them had been running. It knocked the breath right of Thomas’ lungs and he flailed haphazardly as they toppled over, Thomas landing heavily on his victim who grunted loudly.  
  
A few moments passed as Thomas laid completely still, winded and head ringing. In the three seconds it took for him to gather his bearings, register the body that was currently cushioning him and realise what a dead weight he must be to it, a voice strained with pain and disbelief muttered,  
  
‘You’ve gotta be freakin’ kidding me.’  
  
Thomas hastily pushed himself up on his hands and knees. The first sight that greeted him when he looked down was a faded, long-sleeved blue hoodie that was splattered all over with what Thomas realised, with dawning dismay, were eggs and milk. The collision had clearly knocked more than just the breath out of him.  
  
Some of the eggs and milk had stained his own sweater as well, but he could not care in light of the humiliation and guilt welling up inside him. He quickly looked up to apologise for the accident only to be met with a familiar pair of eyes that were, not for the first time, much too close.  
  
Thomas’ dismay evolved into outright horror.  
  
‘Minho?!’ Thomas half-questioned, half-shouted.  
  
The older boy looked as if he was refraining from rolling his eyes with great difficulty. ‘I’m literally inches away from you, dude, you don’t have to yell in my face.’  
  
Minho’s dry observation brought the embarrassing proximity of their faces to Thomas’ attention. Feeling like his cheeks had suddenly caught fire, Thomas hastily pulled back to put a safe amount of distance between their faces, but involuntarily stopped when he was in a sitting position, once again caught up in the mess of eggs and milk he had caused all over Minho’s clothes.  
  
Minho followed his gaze down to his ruined hoodie and Thomas’s gut churned.  
  
‘Uh … how pathetically feeble are those milk cartons, amirite?’ The moment the words escaped his lips, Thomas wanted to smack himself. As if the situation was not the epitome of his life’s embarrassment already.  
  
Minho raised one dark eyebrow, somehow able to make the simple gesture the most sardonic thing Thomas had ever seen. ‘About as pathetic as you bursting the damn thing on my chest, yeah. Watch where you’re going, Greenie.’  
  
Burning with mortification, Thomas said contritely, ‘I’m sorry, I had no idea you were right around the corner.’  
  
‘Randomly running people over around corners seems to be your super power.’  
  
Thomas hesitated. Minho was doing that thing again where Thomas was not sure if he was joking or not. His words were playful enough, but his face and tone were perfectly serious.  
  
After an uncomfortable pause, Thomas tried again. ‘It really was an accident, I’m so sorry about your …’ He trailed off and dropped his gaze, too embarrassed to mention Minho’s hoodie again.  
  
When silence followed, Thomas dared to meet Minho’s eyes. To his surprise, the other boy was eyeing him with amusement, almost smirking.  
  
‘You make it too easy, Greenie,’ he chuckled, puzzling Thomas even more.  
  
‘What do you mean?’  
  
‘You look freaking terrified. I’m not going to eat you, you know.’  
  
‘No, I …’ Thomas gave up. There was nothing he could say that would not make him want to swallow his own tongue at that point. ‘I’m sorry, you must be freaking pissed at me.’  
  
‘Ya think?’ Minho shot a derogatory glance at his shirt again. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m going to kill you, so stop with that face you’re making.’  
  
‘I’m not makin –’  
  
‘Look in a mirror and say that again.’ Minho propped himself up on his elbows and looked up at Thomas with raised eyebrows. He waited.  
  
‘… What?’ Thomas stared back.  
  
‘Any plans to get off me sometime in the near future, Greenie?’  
  
Thomas could almost feel the blood rush to his cheeks as he realised he was still on his knees, straddling – practically sitting on – the boy beneath him.  
  
And then Minho added, with a laughing glint in his eyes, ‘Why, you want a ride?’  
  
The provocative words jolted Thomas into action as if he had been electrocuted. However, the Universe apparently still had all those stars aligned against him; Thomas, in his mad scramble to clamber off Minho, somehow managed to stumble and ended up falling right back on top of him, banging his forehead on Minho’s jawbone.  
  
‘Ow!’ Both of them yelped at the same time.  
  
Thomas had to lie still for a moment, massaging his forehead with his fingers. Something rumbled underneath his head and he dazedly recognised it as Minho’s chest, who was chortling breathlessly.  
  
‘Man, you freaking suck,’ Minho snorted, lightly pushing on Thomas’ shoulders to get him off. ‘I take it that’s your way of saying, _yes, I want one_?’  
  
That brought on another wave of heat to his cheeks, but this time, Thomas had a retort as he sat up again:  
  
‘Why, are you offering?’  
  
Minho blinked, and then grinned up at him. ‘Sure you want me to answer that?’  
  
‘Probably not,’ said Thomas wisely.  
  
He wrinkled his nose when he realised that his little tumble had got eggs and milk on his face this time. Minho laughed again when Thomas looked down at himself with disgust.  
  
‘Looks like karma got my back.’  
  
‘Karma is supposed to excuse accidents,’ Thomas groused, wiping off sticky remnants of egg off his chin.  
  
‘Whatever you say, Greenie. Now will you seriously get the hell off? Things are getting numb that I’d prefer not be numb, yanno?’  
  
With a start, Thomas realised he had gone right back to square one – that is, still on his knees, straddling Minho’s hips. Ignoring the heat around his collar, he quickly got to his feet, hoping Minho did not notice his jerky movements as he tried to hurry without looking like he was hurrying.  
  
Wincing slightly, Minho stood up and looked down at the huge stain all over his torso. Making a face, he gingerly peeled the wet shirt away from his abdomen with two fingers.  
  
He swore under his breath. ‘I smell like shit.’  
  
‘I’m sorry –’ Thomas began.  
  
‘You’ve repeated that so many times, the word’s lost half its meaning by now.’ Minho cut him off, but there was something in his voice that softened the roughness of his words. ‘Just chill, dude. I already said I ain’t gonna kill ya.’  
  
Without waiting for a response, Minho began to make for the 7/11 looming behind Thomas. He paused and looked over his shoulder when he realised the latter was not following.  
  
‘Well, aren’t you coming?’  
  
‘For what?’  
  
A familiar look of mixed exasperation and amusement crossed the other’s face. ‘To rob the cashier at gunpoint, what do you think? To use the restroom and get cleaned up.’ There was a silent, but very loud _dumbass_ at the end of that sentence.  
  
‘Oh, uh, no, that’s OK,’ said Thomas quickly. ‘My house is, like, just a minute away, so I can …’ he trailed off.  
  
‘You live around here?’ Minho’s eyebrows furrowed.  
  
‘Yeah. You?’  
  
Minho shook his head. ‘A bit farther away. Alright, I’m off then. And you, stop with your goddamn mission trying to murder everyone you meet round a corner.’ With a snort, he turned towards the store again.  
  
‘Wait!’ Thomas blurted.  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘Uh … it’s not far, my house…’  
  
‘… Yeah, you already said.’  
  
‘What I mean is,’ Thomas cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortably hot around the collar for reasons he was not willing to ponder right then, ‘you can get cleaned up more easily there … and I’m pretty sure I can find a shirt that fits you or something.’  
  
There was a moment of silence as Minho stared at Thomas, his face entirely devoid of expression. Then,  
  
‘Trying to lure me back to your place to seduce me, are ya?’  
  
Thomas gaped at Minho in disbelief. Then he saw the laughter in his dark eyes and the tell-tale twitch of his lips.  
  
‘Hilarious,’ Thomas deadpanned. ‘You want clean clothes or not?’  
  
Minho allowed his grin to break forth. ‘Lead the way, Greenie.’  
  
~***~  
  
The moment Thomas’ mother opened the door after he rang the doorbell, he regretted not having brought his own keys. At least then he could have snuck Minho inside and saved himself the mortification of seeing _that look_ on her face when she saw another human being standing beside her antisocial son.  
  
Another human being that was not Chuck.  
  
She stared at Minho in open wonder and Thomas felt like his insides were shrivelling up.  
  
‘You brought a … friend?’ She pronounced the word as if it was something alien, but with the reverence of addressing a divine entity.  
  
Thomas could not look at Minho.  
  
‘Uh, I … hello, Mrs … Murphy,’ Minho’s little stutter at the beginning was the only indication of his discomfiture. His voice grew more confident as he continued, ‘I’m Minho Park. I’m sorry to intrude so early in the morning, but we had a little accident and Thomas said his house was nearby, so…’ He gestured to their ruined shirts and Mrs Murphy quickly regained her senses.  
  
‘Oh, of course, it’s no problem, dear. Come inside.’ She stepped back and Thomas led Minho inside, still red in the face.  
  
‘What kind of accident?’ His mother added, closing the door. ‘It smells like – ’  
  
‘I accidentally spilled the milk and eggs on him,’ explained Thomas quickly, eager to get away. Hastily handing over the only pair of eggs he had managed to salvage from the wreckage, he began to lead Minho towards the staircase, saying, ‘Sorry, Mom, I’ll buy some more later.’  
  
He almost bodily dragged Minho away, pulling him by the hand.  
  
When they reached the first floor landing, Minho finally spoke, ‘So … What just happened back there?’  
  
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ replied Thomas innocently as he led Minho down the corridor towards his room.  
  
‘I’m guessing this is the first time you’ve ever brought a boy home?’ Minho drawled.  
  
The more truthful version would be that it was Thomas’ first time bringing _anyone_ home, not counting Chuck, but Minho did not need to know that.  
  
Instead, Thomas asked pointedly as they entered his dimly lit room, ‘What, are you implying that I’m gay?’  
  
‘Well, you’re still holding my hand for starters.’  
  
Thomas snatched his hand back immediately, making Minho chuckle.  
  
‘Not to mention the face you were making downstairs; I could almost feel you burning.’  
  
‘Yeah, well …’ Thomas struggled to find words. ‘You saw how my mother reacted.’  
  
‘Which brings me back to: you’ve never brought a boy home before, have ya, Greenie?’  
  
‘And _you_ don’t have any problems remembering my name when you’re talking to other people, do ya?’ Thomas returned a bit touchily as he opened his closet to rummage for a towel and shirt for Minho. ‘You even remembered my last name, talking to my mom downstairs.’  
  
‘I remember your name just fine, Greenbean. Doesn’t mean I wanna use it.’  
  
‘So that’s never happening?’ Thomas slung a towel towards Minho, who caught it easily.  
  
‘Depends. I might start using it if I come to like your ugly mug enough.’ There was that lilt to Minho’s voice again, softening the blow of his words with an ease Thomas almost envied.  
  
It gave Thomas enough courage to dryly retort as he continued digging through his clothes, ‘Yeah? And here I thought I could seduce the pants off you purely with the power of my face.’  
  
Minho laughed, loud and genuine. ‘Your face ain’t all _that_ , Greenie.’  
  
‘Darn. Guess I’ll just have to rely on my great personality then.’  
  
Minho snickered.  
  
Thomas finally found his faded blue sweater that was a couple sizes too big for him and tossed it at Minho.  
  
‘There. That should fit. Almost the same colour as yours, too.’  
  
The older boy rolled his eyes at him, but there was amusement written all over his face. ‘Your consideration is truly overwhelming. Where’s the bathroom?’  
  
‘Down the hall.’  
  
Minho reached for the hem of his ruined sweater and began to pull it off even as he walked towards the door. Thomas’ eyes widened and he quickly averted his gaze.  
  
‘The bathroom is literally five seconds away, you know,’ he said, his voice a notch too shrill.  
  
Minho paused in the doorway and looked back at him, puzzled, holding his ruined sweater in one hand. He raised an eyebrow at Thomas carefully looking in the opposite direction.  
  
‘Shirtless guys bother you that much?’  
  
‘Doesn’t your privacy mean much to you?’  
  
‘What, it’s not like I dropped my freaking pants, despite how hard you tried to – what was it? – seduce them off.’  
  
At the playful remark, Thomas automatically glanced at Minho and instantly regretted it. His face heated up and he kind of hated himself for the reaction, considering that Minho was only shirtless and that really should not have affected him at all.  
  
Minho chuckled when Thomas quickly looked away again, cheeks flaming.  
  
‘And you wonder why anyone would think you’re gay?’  
  
He sauntered out of the room before Thomas could reply, calling an airy, ‘Thanks for the shirt, Greenie,’ over his shoulder.  
  
Thomas stared at the spot where Minho had disappeared and swore under his breath.  
  
~***~  
  
It came as no real surprise when his mother insisted that Minho stay for breakfast, but that did not make things any easier for Thomas. Despite the few strange banters that had passed for conversation between them, Minho was still a stranger and Thomas had no idea what to say as they sat at the table together.  
  
Minho did not seem entirely at ease, either. He had tried to politely decline the breakfast offer at first, but Mrs Murphy had … insisted.  
  
They ate in silence.  
  
Thomas had never been much of a people person to begin with, but he was not entirely deprived of social skills, contrary to his mother’s belief. He could hold a conversation just fine – even if rather dry and sarcastic on his part – as long as there was a topic. With Minho, though, he could think of nothing.  
  
Except maybe their accident earlier that morning, which Thomas would be happy to never be reminded of again.  
  
Or that his old shirt fit Minho well enough, but the short sleeves were just a _tad_ distracting and probably inappropriate to bring up at breakfast. Or any other time, really.  
  
He almost wished his mother had joined them to help dissipate the awkwardness in the air, but she had eaten while they were upstairs.  
  
To his surprise, it was Minho who broke the silence halfway through their breakfast of toast, sausages and fruit.  
  
‘Is your room always that bare?’  
  
The younger boy looked up from buttering his toast, blinking. ‘What?’  
  
Minho shrugged, not looking at him. ‘Just … your walls were totally bare. No posters, no pictures, nothing.’  
  
‘Yeah …?’ Thomas said slowly. That was the oddest question he had ever been asked.  
  
‘You don’t decorate?’  
  
‘Well … I do, actually. I mean, I don’t cover every available surface, but I put up some stuff. But we just moved here barely a week ago, I haven’t got all my things out…’  
  
‘Oh, right.’ Looking thoughtful, Minho reached for his glass of orange juice.  
  
‘Why’d you ask anyway?’  
  
Minho hesitated for only a moment. ‘I was trying to figure you out.’  
  
Thomas gaped at him, nonplussed.  
  
‘Thought your room would give an idea of how you roll. Pretty white walls weren’t what I was expecting, though.’  
  
Thomas could think of nothing to say at first. Assaulted with a mixture of feelings he could not make sense of yet, he blurted without thinking, ‘You should drop by after I finally open those last few boxes my mom’s been nagging me to empty for the past three days. You’ll see exactly how I roll then.’  
  
Minho seemed taken aback, but then his eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘Are you subtly inviting me over to seduce my pants off again?’  
  
Feeling flustered and embarrassed around Minho seemed to have totally become Thomas’ thing lately. Trying to ignore the flush he could practically feel creeping up his neck, Thomas returned with as straight a face as he could muster, ‘You never miss an opportunity, do you?’  
  
‘You create so many that not taking advantage of them feels like a sin.’  
  
‘Wow, I should start taking lessons from you,’ said Thomas, his lips twitching despite himself.  
  
‘A wise decision, my young Padawan.’ Minho nodded seriously.  
  
‘Do these lessons entail me addressing you as Master Kenobi or senpai?’  
  
‘Actually, Master _Sidious_ to the first, ’cause you can bet your ass I’mma corrupt you to the Dark Side,’ replied Minho easily. Thomas barely had time to wonder at their newly revealed shared love for Star Wars before Minho added, ‘As for the second – I’m Korean, dude, not Japanese. There’s a difference, you know.’  
  
‘I didn’t mean it like tha-’ Thomas began, stricken, but stopped when he saw Minho giving him a familiar wicked grin.  
  
‘Like I said, you make it too easy,’ he said with a chuckle, shaking his head. ‘Just chill, man. I’m not offended.’  
  
With some reluctance, Thomas admitted, ‘It’s hard to tell when you’re kidding sometimes.’  
  
‘It’s a gift,’ Minho said blithely as he stabbed a slice of pear with his fork.  
  
‘You enjoy making people sweat, don’t you?’  
  
The older boy glanced at him, smirking. ‘With reactions like yours, who wouldn’t?’  
  
He had a fair point, Thomas supposed.  
  
Before he could reply, Minho asked, ‘You always go grocery shopping at the crack of dawn?’  
  
‘Only when we wake up to discover we’re missing food for breakfast. You always go running at the crack of dawn?’  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
Thomas raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘On weekends? Willingly?’  
  
‘Teenagers rising early is not entirely unheard of, whatever society seems to think.’ Minho shrugged.  
  
‘And here I thought I was the only one,’ murmured Thomas, fingering the rim of his water glass. ‘But that’s just my biological clock. It’s not like I want to be up early on weekends. I just can’t sleep past seven…’  
  
‘Lucky bastard. I still need to set my alarm …’ Minho regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You know, you should try running sometime. Best start to a day.’  
  
‘Is that a subtle invitation for company on your lonely runs?’ Thomas couldn’t help asking, failing to hide a smile.  
  
With a bark of laughter, Minho put down his fork and leaned back in his chair. ‘Grabbing opportunities already, are we? You learn fast.’  
  
‘All thanks to my … wait, what _is_ the Korean equivalent of senpai, anyway? Do you have one?’  
  
‘I think I prefer Master Sidious,’ said Minho wryly.  
  
‘But I’m really curious now –’  
  
Minho rolled his eyes. ‘Go ahead and Google it. Just know that if you ever call me that word, I’ll punch you in the face. Hell, it might even make you easier on the eyes.’  
  
‘That bad, huh? You’re just egging me on now,’ Thomas grinned, folding his arms on the table.  
  
‘The only one who did any _egging_ today was you. To me.’  
  
‘Hey, I already apologised for that. Keep your shirt on, jeez.’  
  
Minho’s lips began to curl again and Thomas flushed, realising his mistake. ‘I just created another opportunity, didn’t I?’  
  
‘I think that’s your gift,’ Minho chortled. ‘That and running into people around corners. But I’ll take pity on you this time and not comment.’  
  
‘So kind of you,’ said Thomas with an eye roll, still aware of the blush on his cheeks.  
  
‘It’s been known to happen.’  
  
They lapsed into silence for the remainder of breakfast, though it was not as tense or awkward as it had been earlier. Thomas’ mother came back just as they were rising from the table. Minho thanked her and she positively beamed.  
  
‘Feel free to drop by anytime,’ she told him wholeheartedly. ‘Any friend of Thomas is always welcome.’  
  
Thomas blinked and turned his gaze on Minho as the latter smiled and politely bid her goodbye. He was unsure how he felt about his mother’s comment.  
  
Minho – a friend? Did they qualify as friends? Thomas seriously doubted it, but somehow, he was not as averse to the idea as he might have expected.  
  
He wondered to himself how Minho felt about it. They had started out with less-than-warm feelings towards each other from the moment they had met, but the events and talks of this morning had been … strange, certainly, but not … _bad_. Weirdly enough, they had been able to keep their odd conversations going, almost effortlessly.  
  
His thoughts suddenly turned to Minho’s unexpected ice breaker during their breakfast.  
  
What had he meant, that he was trying to figure Thomas out?  
  
Why would Minho even want to?  
  
Before he could ponder on it further, the boy in question was turning to him and Thomas took the cue to quickly lead him to the front door, away from his mother’s doting eyes. He had a feeling he would not hear the end of Minho’s “visit” anytime soon.  
  
The feeling was confirmed when Minho turned to face him on the front porch and promptly froze, his eyes locked on something past Thomas, who was standing in the doorway.  
  
‘I think your mom thinks I’m your boyfriend,’ said Minho frankly, lowering his voice so that only Thomas could hear.  
  
That was exactly the thing Thomas had been consciously ignoring all this time and he was not willing to acknowledge it right now.  
  
‘She’s just excited to think I’m already making friends here, that’s all,’ he replied firmly.  
  
Minho crocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Then why is she staring at us like that right now?’  
  
Thomas blanched. It was all he could do to stop himself from looking over his shoulder.  
  
‘She’s pretending to dust something, but she’s totally looking,’ Minho elaborated, glancing quickly past Thomas a couple of times.  
  
‘Um…’  
  
‘I feel like I’m morally obligated to kiss you goodbye or something.’  
  
For once, Thomas knew for certain that Minho was actually joking, but that did not stop the blood rush to his face.  
  
‘Let’s not feed her suspicions,’ he said quickly, pretending he could not feel the sudden fluttering in his gut.  
  
‘So she _does_ think we’re going out?’ Minho raised his eyebrows, looking like he could not decide between laughing or not. ‘That confirms it: you definitely haven’t brought a guy home, ever.’  
  
‘All right, fine, I haven’t,’ Thomas finally admitted, no longer caring what Minho thought of it. ‘Can we just move this along to where you leave and I can correct my mother’s mistaken thoughts of my waning antisocialism?’  
  
There was a pause in which Minho gazed at him with unreadable eyes, which made Thomas increasingly self-conscious.  
  
‘What?’ he muttered.  
  
‘Nothing …’ answered the other boy slowly. ‘Just that ... never mind. I’ll see you Monday. At detention.’  
  
‘Yeah, I remember,’ said Thomas, watching Minho curiously as he turned to leave.  
  
Minho glanced back at him once when he reached the pavement. Without another word or gesture, he walked away, leaving Thomas to wonder what Minho had meant to tell him before he changed his mind.  
  
~***~  
  
Predictably, Thomas spent the rest of the weekend firmly reassuring his mother that, despite Saturday morning’s circumstances, Minho was not actually a friend.  
  
He was barely an acquaintance even.  
  
An acquaintance he had challenged, run over, brought home, seen shirtless and had an impending detention with, yes, but that did not make Minho a “friend”.  
  
What did Thomas even really know about Minho anyway? Except that he was athletic, sarcastic to a fault, disliked being rivalled and obstinately refused to call Thomas by his given name?  
  
And … that he never missed a chance to make a provocative joke, could make an insult sound almost warm, had actually refused to humiliate a “rival” unfairly, and could keep up a conversation – odd banters, really – with someone he barely knew…  
  
Oh, and he liked Star Wars.  
  
But that did not mean Minho was his _friend_.  
  
His mother – understandably enough – found that hard to believe, considering that Thomas never really had brought anyone over (except Chuck, who was the ultimate exception of Thomas’, well, entire life).  
  
By Sunday night, his mother finally stopped beating about the bush and asked outright, ‘OK, so the boy that came over yesterday is not your _friend_ … then, by chance, is he your –?’  
  
‘Mom!’ cried Thomas, scandalised.  
  
His mother finally took pity on him, thought that did not stop her from adding, with a deceptively noncommittal shrug, as she walked out of the sitting room, ‘He seems very nice, though. I wouldn’t disapprove.’  
  
Thomas groaned and buried his face into the sofa’s throw pillow, dramatically declaring that there was nothing else that could possibly make his accidental encounter with Minho any more mortifying.  
  
~***~  
  
Thomas regretted challenging the Universe the moment he stepped through the school’s double doors on Monday.  
  
Because a picture of Thomas straddling an egg-and-milked splattered Minho – A4 sized and in glaring colour – pinned to the school’s noticeboard, with a crowd of whispering and giggling students gazing at it, was the rotten cherry on top of what promised to be a horrifying week. Probably longer.  
  
Thomas gaped at it. The photo was slightly blurry, taken in the dim light of early morning from the other side of the street apparently, but there was no questioning the two individuals pictured in it.  
  
The two individuals who were, from this angle, in a very real, very compromising position.  
  
And it had only been a week since Thomas moved to this new school.  
  
In that moment, he did not know what was worse – the people who had noticed his presence and were turning to stare, the nightmare of having to put up with this for the next six hours (the next week? Month? Year?), or the seventh hour which would bring him to detention … to Minho.  
  
How would Minho react to this? To Thomas?  
  
A sudden hush fell over the crowd of students and Thomas realised most of them were looking past him now.  
  
He did not need to look to know who must be behind him, staring at the picture with probably the same shock, thrown into the same humiliating position.  
  
Without a word, without a look back, Thomas turned and strode away down the corridor, ignoring the students, the voices, the stares; the boy left behind.  
  
He could not help wondering, though, what Minho would say or do when Thomas finally had to face him in detention later. He could barely imagine it.  
  
When the school day ended and the time for detention finally came, though, Thomas found Minho already waiting for him in Janson’s classroom, and the look on his face was the last thing Thomas was expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'll try to make the next chapter the last part of "Friends" so I can move Thomas and Minho along to the last ... stage ... of their relationship, if you get my drift ;)
> 
> Sorry for the wait and thanks to everyone who shared their thoughts on the fic. Really appreciated ^_^


End file.
